THE IMAGINARY LIVES OF MECHANICAL MEN
Winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction
THE IMAGINARY LIVES OF MECHANICAL MEN
STORIES BY RANDY F. NELSON
Published by the University of Georgia Press
Athens, Georgia 30602
© 2006 by Randy F. Nelson
All rights reserved
Designed by Erin Kirk New
Set in 9.8 on 14 Electra
Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore
The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.
Printed in the United States of America
06 07 08 09 10 C 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nelson, Randy F., 1948–
The imaginary lives of mechanical men: stories by / Randy F. Nelson.
p. cm. — (Winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction)
ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-2845-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8203-2845-6 (hardcover : alk. paper)
I. Title. II. Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction.
PS3614.E4493I43 2006
813’.6—dc22 2005037661
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
Weird Tales covers reprinted by permission of Weird Tales Ltd.
Weird Tales is a registered trademark of Weird Tales Ltd.
ISBN for this digital edition: 978-0-8203-4286-3
for my family
Contents
Acknowledgments
Mechanical Men
They Have Replaceable Valves and Filters
The Cave
Here’s a Shot of Us at the Grand Canyon
Food Is Fuel
Abduction
The Guardian
The Ticking and Tocking of Their Hearts
Cutters
Breaker
River Story
In the Picking Room
Two Who Drowned
Refiner’s Fire
Pulp Life
One Who Got Away
Escape
Acknowledgments
The author and the publisher gratefully acknowledge the journals in which many of the stories in this collection first appeared: “Abduction” in North American Review; “Breaker” in Glimmer Train; “The Cave” in Crazyhorse; “Cutters” in Story; “Escape” in Georgia Review; “Food Is Fuel” in Seattle Review; “The Guardian” in Gettysburg Review; “Here’s a Shot of Us at the Grand Canyon” in Kenyon Review; “In the Picking Room” in Portland Review; “Pulp Life” in Northwest Review; “Refiner’s Fire” in Southern Review; “River Story” in Descant. The quotation from The Iliad in “Refiner’s Fire” is from Robert Fagles’s translation published by Penguin Classics in 1991.
For the language, lore, history, and procedures of shipbreaking, I am indebted to articles and images by William Langewiesche (“The Shipbreakers,” Atlantic, August 2000) and Edward Burtynsky (www.cowlesgallery.com). For help at all stages of research, I am grateful to the librarians of E. H. Little Library. Thanks also to Alice Tasman of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency and especially to Susan Nelson for her continuing assurance and inspiration.
THE IMAGINARY LIVES OF MECHANICAL MEN
Mechanical Men
For every death or serious injury within the compound itself, I write an incident report. This is partly for insurance purposes, partly to establish a database, but mostly to keep outside funds flowing into the Center. After I’ve written the report, I have it certified by a private investigator then notarized over my signature, with copies getting sent to the funding agencies, individual project directors, and on down through the bureaucracy. It’s the way science is done now. Of course if there were more than one death in a relatively short time, then I wouldn’t want to use the same investigator twice, would I? It might look like a pattern.
Which is why I called Peggy over at Harris, Helms, and Stillman. She made it sound like she was fronting for a law firm. So it took a while to establish that Stillman wasn’t in the office.
“Thank you,” I said. “Please just tell him I’ll pick him up tomorrow morning at 8:30. I’ll be out front. Tan Lexus, four door.”
“Are you a client of ours, Mr. Levin?”
“A friend. Just mention my name.”
“And what should I tell him it’s about?”
“Say it’s about the death of a very important chimpanzee.”
“Sir?”
“What else can I tell you? I lie for a living.”
So the next morning I laid out Janie’s meds, helped the home nurse move her up in the bed, and kissed her good-bye as though it were the last time. Just like every morning. Then drove through one of those winter rains that can’t seem to rinse the grime off our streets. Potholes overflowing like toilets, and trucks slinging muck over your windshield. Every few blocks I seemed to pass some homeless guy throwing off steam like he’d been boiled for three days. Then a strip mall closed up like an armadillo. Even Stillman’s office looked like a burger joint that had failed in the eighties. He was standing out front watching a woman yank her kid toward the bus stop. And I blew the horn just to see if he’d flinch.
He’d always been precise in his movements, like one of those mechanical toys in Blade Runner, so I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe for him to rotate his head and look down like I was vermin. Anyhow, he was uncanny enough. There was the scar that you wouldn’t notice unless you looked, running from hairline to neck, and the animatronic eyes that you see in deaf people. I wondered if he still had hearing in one ear. He gave the black overcoat a shake and slipped into the front seat beside me. Then I swung a left and headed back into the traffic. It was a minute or two before he spoke. I guess he needed to warm up.
Finally he brought me up to date by saying “Nice weather,” dropping the r and losing the sibilance altogether. It sounded like nigh weatha. So, yeah, I felt great about the horn thing.
“How ya doing?” I said.
“Doing okay. How about you?”
“I’m getting there.”
And that’s the way we handled it until the years melted away. It took a while. Stillman barely moved his lips, like he was afraid of making a mistake, and maybe I overarticulated a little. But by the time we’d got to the city limits, he felt comfortable enough to say, “How come you talk like a fruit?”
“I enunciate. I’m on TV a lot. How come you’re wearing the same coat?”
“Because the disability check sucks.”
“You sound good.”
“So you do lie. Look, I can still hear if that’s what you want to know, 70 percent out of the right ear. I don’t use a hearing aid. And I can read your damn mind if I watch your face while you’re talking. So I thought we ought to get that part out of the way. In case you were wondering.”
“Glad you haven’t changed.”
“So, anyhow. Where we going?”
“To the Land of Oz.”
“Odz? Like the movie?”
“Yeah, like someplace you’re not going to believe.”
“This place got a real name?”
“The Jervis Center. We’re about twenty minutes out.”
“The monkey place?”
“The Jervis Center for Primate Research. Except the subject of your report is a chimpanzee, named Greta, who was maybe thirty times smarter than any human you know.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead. And therefore holding up some very expensive research. And idling some very expensive equipment. And inconveniencin
g some very expensive people. So here’s the deal. You get $2,500 to ride out, look around, and sign a report saying how she got dead—submitted on your letterhead. I write the report; you sign it. You got twenty-four hours starting five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I ought to get this out of the way too. I don’t do insurance fraud.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I get to ask any questions?”
“After we get there and I introduce you around, you can go anywhere you want, ask anything you want. As long as you finish in twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes.”
“Somebody in a hurry?”
“Everybody I know’s in a hurry.”
He didn’t have a comeback for that because he’d been a cop for eighteen years. He already knew. For a few minutes he watched the windshield wipers and the rain snakes crawling on the side window. Then he finally got around to it. “Look. I heard about Janie a few months ago. Sorry.”
It sounded like he’d said Danie. Like he was trying to be cute.
“I guess it’s rough,” he said.
“We’re getting by.”
“She’s in one of those, you know, hospital places?”
“Hospice?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that your first question? Or are we just killing time?”
I drove us past the protesters in the parking lot and over to the medical wing, where I introduced Stillman to Katharine Woodruff, head of neurology. She was one of the brain busters who made the chimps do arithmetic so they’d develop ulcers and we could thus better understand humanity. Or something like that. Like every vice president I’ve ever met, she had Stillman’s hand before I’d even mentioned his name. He passed her one of his business cards. She slipped it into a folder. He took in the windows, the vaulted ceiling, and the vast, empty spaces of her office like it was his first visit to the cathedral. Which it probably was. And she gave him a moment to look around. It was touching. I could see Stillman trying not to be impressed, trying to be the cop he used to be. Running his knuckles over the top of her desk, like he might be planning to land a helicopter on it. So she gave him a second or two and then said, “Mr. Levin here has explained the protocol?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m just a little unclear why you need somebody like me.”
As he spoke, Katharine focused on his face, attempting to read beneath Stillman’s surface. She found the scar and had to prevent herself from touching it.
“Mr. Stillman is slightly hearing impaired,” I said. “As the result of an explosion. He was a decorated detective with the NYPD until he had to retire on partial disability, after a bad morning with a suspicious package.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“We knew each other,” I went on, “back when I was a reporter. I covered a few of his cases. He’s good.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Stillman, to answer your question—the local police are out of the picture. This is a private property issue as far as they’re concerned. Second, your time, to be honest, is less costly than that of research staff. And, third, our insurers require an outside vetting. Greta was the subject of neuro-cognitive experiments which are vital to a new medical procedure we’re hoping to market in a very short …”
“You got a monkey who was murdered?”
“Greta was not a monkey, Mr. Stillman. In fact, that’s one reason Mr. Levin here will be helping with your report. As assistant director of public relations, he frequently has to translate our language into … more public language. Greta, to be precise, was Pan troglodytes, an east African chimpanzee and the closest relative to humans in the animal kingdom. Her DNA was 98.4 percent identical to yours.”
“But this Greta. She’s like 98.4 percent dead now, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“You have your own security people?”
“Yes. In the past week they’ve reported nothing more than a minor break-in and the usual protesters.”
“Break-in where?”
“A photography lab. Some lighting equipment and battery packs went missing.”
“Protesters?”
“I’m sure you saw them when you came in. Animal rights groups, most of them—PETA, that sort of thing—people who think the animals are being abused. The world is full of romanticists, Mr. Stillman, who believe that science advances by magic or by computer modeling or some such nonsense.”
“So are they? Being abused that is?”
Katharine looked at me and then toward the dark mahogany of her twin office doors. “Greta fell, Mr. Stillman. From a high place. Which I’m sure you’d like to examine for yourself. Laurence, if you would perhaps show our guest to the compound itself, you could introduce him to Dr. Deckard on your way.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that would probably be the best thing.”
So we ran the maze.
I took him back to the atrium, across the polished marble, clepclepping like horses at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Then into the chrome elevator that they probably don’t have in the Grand Canyon, where we watched the numbers flicker and listened to the soft ping of passing floors, all the way up to INFECTIOUS DISEASES. And then down the syringe. That’s what they call it on the public tours. A glassed-in hallway—almost a tube—connecting two of the buildings. It gives a spectacular view of the entire campus. Though at night it’s a little different. Twelve stories up, you think twice about stepping out into nothing. And even in the daytime it’s intimidating.
So halfway across, I stopped him, just to make my point. “In case you’re wondering, this isn’t a joke. There’s a hell of a lot at stake here. So don’t get cute with these people.”
“Or what? They’ll make me stay after school?”
“Just stick with the program, okay?”
“Sure. I figure you’re paying better than the government.”
In a small anteroom outside a door marked DISSECTION, we put on cleansuits, booties, and masks. Then I keyed the numbers into the security pad. On the other side of the door, a lab assistant checked us out and pointed toward a white-gowned figure manipulating a robotic arm that descended from the ceiling. He looked like a dentist. Other white figures clustered around a stainless steel table in the center of the room. The subject of their attention was not moving.
“Dr. Deckard?” The assistant halted us outside the circle of bowed heads.
“Yes?”
“It’s Mr. Levin,” the assistant said. “He’s here with the vetting officer.”
“Laurence. Of course.” The dentist-figure glanced at us without standing upright. “Come over and have a look if you want, although I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. This isn’t an autopsy. Our only real concern is with the neural pathways and”—he sawed through a bit of skull with a far too familiar sound—“how the connectors performed. But you’re welcome to observe. Give us a little more water flow here.”
“This is Augustus Stillman,” I said. “Dr. Deckard is the lead investigator for the neuro-cognitive section.”
“Augustus. An emperor we don’t hear from every day.” Deckard lifted away a portion of the cranium and laid it in an aluminum pan. “I always thought you got a bum rap in Shakespeare. Caught you at a bad time.”
Stillman looked at me.
“He says you got a bum rap. Shakespeare and all that.”
“So what kind of experiment was it?”
Something in Stillman’s tone caused Deckard to rise up and study us for the first time. He was wearing a plasticine face shield that exaggerated the mantislike features of his face. “Fascinating stuff really. Can you see that? Right down there? The visual cortex. It’s where neurons first register motion in the brain. But here’s the really interesting thing. You can have tons of visual input and no consciousness at all of motion or form or color or depth or velocity unless everything’s connected to the frontal lobes, up here. What that means is that if the wiring’s no good, then we don’t actually see anything. Makes you wonder what we mi
ss every day, doesn’t it?”
“You did something to the wiring in her brain?”
“In a sense. We wanted to know what would happen if we could increase the intensity and speed of her connections, so to speak. Could we create a kind of superconsciousness, at least visually?”
“You were making a genius chimp.”
“In a very limited sense. Think of it this way. You, and most humans, can look at a ceiling fan, for example, and after a few minutes it looks as if the blades are rotating backward. Now in reality we know that the blades aren’t going backward at all, but it seems that way because our perception is out of sync with what’s really happening. So—what would reality look like if we could triple or maybe quadruple the amount of information flowing from cortex to lobes? Human beings just assume that reality is something that flows all around them. But what would reality look like to a much faster processor?”
“You sped up Greta’s brain.”
“We inserted microscopic implants, rerouting a number of neural pathways. Roughly four times the amount of information moving from the visual cortex to the frontal lobes. In some ways, a very simple and elegant procedure.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Nothing. At least not procedurally. She had recovered nicely from the operation, and we had just released her back into the compound.”
Stillman edged closer to the table and looked at the peaceful figure. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. “She looks like a muppet,” he said.
“I never thought of it like that.”
“So how did she actually die?”
The question seemed to catch Deckard off guard. He thought a moment and reached behind the cranium so he could move the head in several directions. “Broken neck, I’m afraid.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It’s too bad for a lot of people. The same procedure we used on Greta will be used on humans in the very near future. Stroke victims, Alzheimer’s, epilepsy, ALS, cerebral palsy, brain cancer. We already know it will work. What we have to do now is demonstrate that it will work, which is the part of my job that I detest, putting on puppet shows for government review boards. People will die, Mr. Stillman. Real live people will die for every delay we face in this program. Our procedure is that revolutionary. And the animals here at the Jervis Center get the most humane possible treatment. They are very lucky.”
The Imaginary Lives of Mechanical Men Page 1